Dying is Easy
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: The title says it all, but it's not what you expect.


He was dying. He knew that as instinctively as he knew his name and it wasn't so scary. Certainly not the way he thought it was going to be. It was rather nice actually, not having to deal with the pain or pressure of being alive any more, or not for much longer at any rate.

He could feel his heart slowing, ebbing along with the rest of his body. He'd given up breathing a long time ago, or so it felt. A machine was doing it for him now and that was fine. He knew it would be his heart that was the deciding factor in how much longer he stayed alive.

He thought about dying, remembering back to not so long ago when he'd been at a play with a friend – _Our Town_, it had been called and he remembered how the girl, preparing to shake free of the world, reminisced about everything that she would miss, taking each in turn to bid them a farewell.

_And what will you miss, Illya Nickovich? _ he asked himself. It was easier to think of the things he wouldn't miss. He wouldn't miss being constantly regarded with distrust or suspicion simply because of his mother country. He wouldn't miss the voices whispering behind his back, postulating about his loyalty, his commitment to UNCLE. He wondered if they'd still question it, now that he was dying for it. They'd probably just snicker and hide their smiles behind their hands. Stupid Russian couldn't even save himself. At least Napoleon was safe.

Now there was something he would miss. He'd miss his partner. Almost from day one, Napoleon had treated him as an equal. The man had more reasons than most to hate and distrust him, but Napoleon was cut from better fabric than that. He saw behind the labels so many others were quick to plaster across Illya's reputation. Waverly had trusted Illya enough to bring him into the organization, but Napoleon instinctively knew and understood Illya's depth of loyalty to him as well as Waverly and UNCLE.

He sighed slightly; the respirator made it hard to do more than that. He remembered the first time they'd gone to a baseball game together; Napoleon had gone nearly mad trying to explain the game to him. Long after he understood the principles of the game, he still feigned ignorance in order to allow Napoleon the pleasure of explaining it all to him again. He'd miss the casual meals they shared, the inanely silly jokes Napoleon was so fond of and frequently re-told just to make him smirk in annoyance. Hell, he'd even miss Napoleon's deliberate mispronunciation of his name. Yes, Napoleon he would miss.

His heart was sluggish now, skipping a beat or two, soon it would stop all together. He couldn't really hear too much anymore, a distant beeping, some whispers of other noises that he was too hard pressed to name. Then he heard voices.

"We don't know how much he can hear, Napoleon, but you can give it a try." A nurse… Nellie? He couldn't tell now. He'd miss her too. She was one of the good ones.

"They tell me it's time to say good bye, my friend." Napoleon's voice was strained, tight. "I'm sorry, Illya, I tried to save you, but I was too late this time. I should be the one lying there, not you." He felt a hand tighten on his, but he lacked the strength or desire to squeeze back. "God, what am I going to do without you, you stubborn Russian? You can't die."

_You'll go on, Napoleon, just as you always have._ Illya thought. _You have your women, your career. You're a survivor and you'll manage._ He felt something wet on his face and thought for a moment that the ceiling must be dripping, then recognized it as…tears? Napoleon was… crying? For him?

That somehow didn't seem right. He was just a cog in a bigger machine. He wasn't supposed to mean anything to anyone, that wasn't the way he'd planned it. Or perhaps there were just some things that happened that you couldn't plan for, like Napoleon's friendship, Waverly's trust, his own sense of belonging to something bigger than himself.

Suddenly, dying wasn't quite as attractive as it had been a moment earlier. Suddenly, he wasn't as ready to just surrender to the peace and warmth around him. Life was cold and hard and painful, so why did it seem so much more than what he was being offered? To go back would be to face to the same naysayers who couldn't see past their own ignorance to take in the bigger picture. To go back would mean more pain, more disappointment, more anger and more struggling. To go back would mean being with Napoleon for just a bit longer.

And abruptly his heart surged, he clenched the hand that held his and he started to fight the respirator. In life, everyone told him what to do, his government, his family, his employer. Not in death. In death, no one told Illya Nickovich what to do, except for Illya Nickovich… and possible a dark-haired American who dared to call him friend…


End file.
